


My Heaven is Blue

by RuinsPlume



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Black Lavender Brown, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Fluff and Smut, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Oral Sex, Queer Themes, Vaginal Fingering, poc characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinsPlume/pseuds/RuinsPlume
Summary: Hermione's dark eyes flash, assessing, deciding, desiring. Under that gaze Lavender feels like a book Hermione wants to read. A book in a language no one speaks. A book that has been waiting its whole life for someone to take it off the shelf and translate it correctly.Hermione is that someone.Or:In which Hermione is an Unspeakable and Lavender gets her to talk. Yes, that kind of talk.





	My Heaven is Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evening12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evening12/gifts).



> Thanks to this year's femmefest mods, especially Evening12, whose prompt inspired this fic. Thanks also to Museinabsentia for the beta and Shaggydosgstail for the polish and britpick. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Her last customers finally out the door, Lavender carries the till drawer to the office behind the tea shop's dining area. She knew business would be good on Valentine's Day but she never expected this--her receipts are nearly two hundred galleons over the number she'd scarcely dared hope for. It's a good thing Lavender's already got a celebration planned. All she has to do now is pry Hermione away from her desk at the Ministry. 

She locks the day's earnings in the safe and returns to the dining room, leaning against the counter a moment to watch the cafe's lighted sign cycle through the colours of the rainbow as it spells out _Helga's_ , its light reflecting on the snow-dusted cobblestones below. Those two Hogwarts girls Lavender had to chase out at closing time are still out there, snogging against the brick wall of Honeydukes now, just across the way. 

The sight makes her grin. It's for those two girls--and the other Hogwarts students like them--that Lavender opened Helga's, Hogsmeade's first queer cafe. When she first announced her plans to bring this little wizarding village into the 21st century, nearly everyone said it couldn't be done. That there wouldn't be enough draw, that Helga's would last six months at most, even that the building itself--which used to be the Hog's Head before Aberforth died--was cursed. Only Hermione and Angelina had backed her. Angelina gave her the seed money out of her World Cup winnings and won't hear of Lavender paying her back, even though she can now. And Hermione--well. Lavender feels a swell of emotion in her chest and turns to look at the photo. 

The edges of the mirrored wall behind the cafe counter are festooned with photographs, including one of Angelina astride her broom in her Puddlemere jersey. Angelina gives her a wave and Lavender waves back. Just to the right of Angelina's picture, Helga's slogan is painted across the top of the mirror-- _I'll teach the lot, and treat them just the same_ \--and beside that is the photo Lavender wants to see, the large colour portrait of Hermione and herself, both of them angling their wrists to show off their matching wedding rings. Lavender added that picture just this week; they've been married exactly ten days.

When Lavender bought the building last winter, Hermione came every single night after a full day's work at the Ministry and spent hours spelling away all the years of dirt and grime and painful magic that the building had accumulated in the many years it was the Hog's Head. Every inch of the place still vibrated with the complicated unhappiness of Aberforth's magical signature. Lavender was the one who could See the vibrations he left, but it was Hermione who'd had the skills to remove them, Hermione who replaced all that bitter, sticky, secretive energy with her own magical signatures of courage and power and pride, not to mention a kickass structural reinforcement charm on the north wall. Lavender glances up at the collage of pictures again and photograph Hermione catches her eye and winks.

"Cheeky," Lavender mutters, but her heart does a little stutter of anticipation at the reminder of what she's got planned once she finishes locking up. She glances around at her tea shop. The floor still needs sweeping, but the hell with it, she can come in early and and do it before she opens. She can't wait another minute, not when her wife is looking down from the photograph with _that_ look in her eyes.

Lavender Vanishes her work clothes, a loose tunic over leggings, and performs a quick Scourgify on herself. She rubs lotion onto her hands and forearms until her skin, ashy from being washed and dried all day, shines deep brown and luscious-smooth once more. Next she pulls off her head scarf, letting her long extensions tumble down her back, and slithers into the black sheath dress Hermione bought her for her birthday, the one Hermione says she likes Lavender to put on because it makes Hermione want to rip it right off her again. She tugs on her favorite pair of boots and then she's ready for her girl. 

It's past seven by the time she arrives at the Ministry, and the atrium is nearly empty. As always, the elevator's descent into the basement gives Lavender the creeps, the silence deepening with every metre she drops. It's like being underwater, she thinks for the hundredth time. She doesn't understand how Hermione can come and work here every day, especially not after what she went through during the war, but Hermione loves her job, so Lavender doesn't argue. 

The diving bell of the lift hisses to a stop and disgorges her on the very bottom of the ocean floor, in the department of Mysteries. This is the moment Lavender's been waiting for. The only non-Ministry employees allowed into the Department of Mysteries without an appointment are the spouses of Unspeakables, and this is the first time Lavender's called on Hermione since they returned from their honeymoon last week. Since then, Hermione has been working nearly round the clock, making up for the missed honeymoon hours on top of the already long hours her job demands. But it's Friday night, and it's Valentine's day, and Helga's had the best day ever, and now Lavender is here to pick her wife up from work and celebrate in high style. They've got reservations at Chez Ceridwen for 8:00, because after this workday Lavender is ready to have someone wait on her for a change, thank you very much. 

"Unspeakable Granger's wife," Lavender announces to the old wizard behind the receptionist's desk, relishing the the sound of her newly-acquired rights on her tongue. 

"Congratulations, Madam," the wizard answers, nodding so vigorously that his thick glasses drop down his nose. Jedediah Florin looks like an ancient puff pastry, Lavender thinks, with his pale wrinkled face and a shock of white hair clinging to his skull like a dollop of whipped cream. Florin writes something on the parchment in front of him, then flicks his wand to drop the protective spell that blocks the corridors behind him. 

"That's curious." He scowls, flicking his wand again. "Lavender Granger, it must be now?"

"Miz Brown to you," Lavender says, pleased at her own joke. Florin doesn't get the Muggle music reference, though. Lavender herself wouldn't have got it a year ago either. It was Hermione's idea to play old Muggle blues and jazz on a gramophone at Helga's, and Hermione was right--it's added to the cafe's draw. While Muggle music has become the rage everywhere since the end of the war, most Wizarding establishments play modern tracks on invisible digital machines. Whereas at Helga's, patrons can go up and browse the shelves of vinyl records, choose for themselves what albums to listen to and stacking them on the turntable. It keeps the customers there longer as they wait for their selection, and whilst they wait they order another pot of tea, a second glass of wine, a plate of cherry tarts.

"You're keeping your name, then?" Florin raises his white eyebrows, as if it's the fact that Lavender hasn't taken Hermione's name that's the surprising thing, and not that they're two women. Well, that's progress in its own way, Lavender supposes. 

She asssures him she is and he writes on the parchment once more and waves his wand again. This time the wards dissolve with a shimmer. "You may proceed, Madam," he says graciously and she does, her black braids swinging over her shoulders as she tries to maintain a slow gait despite the urge to bound down the hall toward her wife. 

The door to Hermione's office swings open just as Lavender reaches it. There must be a tracking spell on her, she realises, cast as soon as she stepped from the elevator. But she can't think about that now, not when Hermione is leaning back in her chair with her feet up on the desk and her hands behind her head, looking absolutely stunning in a charcoal-coloured bespoke Muggle suit that manages to be both modest and ridiculously sexy at the same time. Maybe it's the way Hermione has got her ankles crossed over one another, the toes of her no-nonsense black flats just a bit pointier than Lavender recalls them being when Hermione left for work this morning. Or maybe it's the way her suit jacket hugs her frame, the way the cut of the lapels says, _if you fuck with me I will crush you_ whilst at the same time managing to look understated and elegant. 

Or maybe it's Hermione herself, and the gaze she levels at Lavender across the desk. Her dark eyes flash, assessing, deciding, desiring. Under that gaze Lavender feels like a book Hermione wants to read. A book in a language no one speaks. A book that has been waiting its whole life for someone to take it off the shelf and translate it correctly.

Hermione is that someone.

And suddenly Lavender can't wait anymore. She's been good all week, falling asleep alone--the week after their honeymoon!--whilst Hermione works late until ten, eleven, even midnight in this fucking department. She holds Hermione's gaze, feeling the prickle of desire and magic it sets off inside her, a tingling that begins between her legs and bursts up through her belly and down the backs of her thighs. Goddamn, her wife looks hot like this. Lavender takes a step toward the desk, suddenly emboldened by the power surging through her. If there's a tracking spell on her, well, Hermione'd better take if off if she doesn't want the office to know exactly how close Lavender plans to get.

She comes up to the desk, reaches out and wraps her hand around Hermione's ankle, her fingertips catching on the sheer stockings that disappear beneath Hermione's trouser legs.

"This is how you sit when you're hard at work?" Lavender asks, raising one eyebrow. "With your hands behind your head and your feet on the desk like you're watching that Muggle telly?"

Hermione swallows and Lavender watches her throat work.

"This is how I sit when I know my wife's heading down the hall to see me," she replies, and Lavender's not imagining the huskiness in her voice. Of course, it could be due to giving testimony to the Wizengamot for four solid hours this afternoon, but Lavender's pretty sure it's not.

She lets go of Hermione's ankle. "Power stance? For me?"

Hermione raises one eyebrow. "I thought you liked it." In one smooth motion, she swings her feet off the desk and pushes her roller chair backward.

"Oh, I do," Lavender assures her, coming around to Hermione's side of the desk. "It makes me wonder what else you get up to in here when you're all by yourself."

Hermione's eyes dart to the towering stacks of parchment on either side of her desk, and that won't do at all, Lavender thinks. Hermione is not going to be permitted to do any more work this evening. 

"I'm just wondering if you work better when someone's standing over you," Lavender muses. "Like at school. If there'd been a professor in here watching you, you'd have had all that work finished by midweek, isn't that right? And then you'd have been home with me last night."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest, closes it again. Lavender can read the uncertainty on her face, trying to assess whether Lavender's really only teasing, or is actually angry about how much Hermione's been holed up here in the Department of Mysteries since they returned from their honeymoon. Lavender isn't sure herself. But what comes out of her mouth next is, "I'm waiting for an answer, Ms. Granger."

Hermione colours, her light brown skin flushing warm sienna across her face and throat.

Lavender folds her arms across her chest.

"I'll just have to work faster," Hermione says, keeping her face set. 

"Oh," Lavender croons. "You don't need to work faster. I think you need to work smarter."

Smarter? Hermione's gaze burns into Lavender, her magic heating along with it, rising to the challenge. 

That Hermione is likely the smartest person in the entire Ministry is irrelevant to the fact that she needs to keep proving it, over and over again. Maybe it's because her complaint that "if I don't do it, no one else will" is usually true, if the war history is anything to judge by. Maybe it's because she's Muggle-born and a black girl to boot. 

Or maybe it's just the fire inside her that burns hotter and brighter in Hermione than in anyone Lavender's ever known. Lavender's idea of changing the world is to open the first queer tea room in Hogsmeade, where proud wixen of every stripe can hold hands and cuddle in peace whilst enjoying their cherry tarts; Hermione's idea of changing the world is to reform the entire Ministry of Magic from the ground up--literally, since they're currently in the basement.

"You're the smartest person in this bloody building," Lavender says. "But you're being dumb about one thing. I think you need a remedial lesson in how you work best, and it's not sitting here all alone at your desk after hours with no one to praise you, is it, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione doesn't answer. Lavender squeezes her hands under her arms to keep herself from simply grabbing Hermione and snogging the breath out of her. Lets that gaze keep burning. She and Hermione were never friends at school but Lavender watched her plenty. She Saw the vibrations around Hermione, and not only her strengths but the weak places, the parts where her magic wasn't tended, couldn't flourish. Lavender Saw the holes in the shield Hermione kept around herself, a shield so brilliant that most people simply turned away from it, blinking and rubbing their eyes. But for all Hermione's brilliance, there were some things she'd never learned about herself. When she and Lavender started dating after the war, Lavender taught Hermione another kind of magic. 

"It makes you so tense, doesn't it?" Lavender presses on. "No one to see how hard you're working. No one to tell you what a good job you do." She nods at a stack of magical scrolls sealed with Sibyllian knots. "I bet not one single person knows how much time and energy you've spent on those."

A soft hiss of breath escapes Hermione's lips.

"Stand up," Lavender commands.

Hermione does, looking even more dashing in that fucking suit than she did sitting down, the lines of the suit all sharp and angular, and Hermione's face above it anything but. Her hair is a soft cloud above her, drawn into a puff by a dark blue headscarf, and the dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose is just barely visible in the crappy after-hours office lighting. Lavender extends her fingers, dragging them slowly over the curve of Hermione's jaw, down her neck, past the unbuttoned top button of her silk shirt, and into the hollow at the base of her throat. Hermione's skin is so warm. Lavender moves her fingers lower, sliding her hand inside the suit jacket until she's cupping Hermione's small breast through the layers of silk blouse and bra. 

_Take the jacket off,_ Lavender almost says, but Hermione looks too good with it on, with Lavender's hand reaching inside it to fondle her through her blouse. She moves her fingers until she finds the nub of a nipple. When she squeezes, Hermione whimpers, her eyes never leaving Lavender's.

"Why don't you show me how well you work," Lavender suggests. "You can start by unzipping those trousers."

"In my office?" Hermione's eyebrows go up, and for a moment Lavender thinks she's misplayed her hand.

"In your office," she repeats, hoping she's right about this. "Show me how good your cloaking charms really are."

Hermione hesitates only a moment. Then she furrows her brow, concentrating, and Lavender feels the rippling power of Hermione's wandless magic flow over them both. And goddamn it that turns her on. She shifts in her boots, feeling the ripple and zing in her cunt, clenching her thighs together as she watches Hermione's fingers undo first the button and then the trousers' metal clasp. Hermione kicks off her shoes and lets the trousers fall from her hips, so much slimmer than Lavender's wide ones, and gracefully steps free of the expensive wool. She's wearing the knickers Lavender gave her for Christmas. High-cut silk, lavender-coloured because _you're mine now_. Thrumming with desire, Lavender reaches out and hooks one finger inside the waistband, her knuckles softly grazing Hermione's skin.

"Do you know what I want you to do?" Lavender asks, in as honeyed a voice as she can manage, trying to sound cool rather than eager.

Hermione opens her mouth. "I--"

Lavender watches the twin impulses fight it out on Hermione's face, the desire to answer warring with the shame of saying it aloud. But she knows her girl. Hermione always gets what she wants in the end. Always. Especially when it costs her.

"You want me to tell you," Hermione says softly. "What I--what I--"

"Go on, honey," Lavender says. Her knickers are already wet. And they haven't even really started yet.

"What I need," Hermione finishes, her eyes falling to the grey carpet between them.

Lavender loves seeing her like this. Hermione the brave and powerful versus Hermione the timid and shy. Both Hermiones will win, of course. That's why Lavender plays this. 

"What do you need, then?" she asks, unable to keep the note of teasing from her voice.

Hermione's eyes dart to Lavender's face, then away.

"I need--" She licks her upper lip once, a little stall. "You. To touch me."

Hermione's starting with the easiest thing, then, and just as well, because Lavender really can't wait any longer to to get her hands on her girl. She moves her hand from the silky waistband, and lets her fingers drift over the front of Hermione's knickers instead. She can feeling the wiry curls of her pubic hair through the fabric, and then, lower, the soft swell of her pussy lips. 

"Touch you here, love?" Lavender presses her finger just there, and the soft fullness makes her own cunt slick with anticipation.

 

Hermione nods, closing her eyes and raises her face to the ceiling. Lavender drags her finger up over those curls and back down again, tracing but not yet pushing into the swell. Hermione's hands reach behind her and curl around the edge of the desk. Lavender leans forward over her and presses the lightest kiss to Hermione's mouth. Or rather, she meant it to be a light kiss. But Hermione opens to her, and when Lavender gets the fullness of Hermione's lower lip between her own, she can't help but suck it in, can't help biting down gently, can't help the moan that escapes her at the feel and the heat and the taste and the sweet of her girl. Without breaking the kiss, Lavender reaches up and pulls Hermione's headscarf free, feeling the all that soft hair drift over her hands like a rain-soaked cloud. She breathes in the scent of it--cocoa butter and just _Hermione_ \--and Hermione whimpers, pressing up against Lavender and wrapping her hands around Lavender's arse. 

Hermione's hands wanting her there feels so good that Lavender almost gives in to it. But not yet. Instead she puts puts a hand on Hermione's collar bone and pushes herself back, breaking Hermione's grasp. She gives Hermione's shoulder a squeeze, holding her at arm's length, but holding her all the same. Letting her know who's in charge, and that it's not her. That right now, it's not Hermione who's got to run things, keep it all together, figure every angle because no one else is doing shit. Not this time. Right now it's Lavender who's got this. 

"Take off those knickers and get on the desk," Lavender croons.

Hermione makes a noise in her throat, a combination of arousal and despair. She lowers her knickers and perches her sweet little arse on the edge of the desk, legs clamped together, the dark triangle of her pubic hair just visible beneath the edge of her white blouse. 

"Now let me see you, love."

Hermione spreads her legs. 

There. Beneath Hermione's bespoke suit lives this. The ripe seam of her, swollen with wanting and wetness. The wild, fierce mouth of her. So hungry to be opened.

Lavender reaches out and touches two fingers to Hermione's inner thigh, then brings those fingers slowly to her labia, stroking the clasp on the purse she is dying to open. The muscles in Hermione's thighs tense, her head dropping back as Lavender sweeps her fingers but does not enter. "Tell me what you need now," Lavender purrs.

Hermione's eyes are closed, her head turned away, fighting it. 

"Tell me, love," Lavender urges. She curls the tip of her index finger against that sealed seam and feels a bead of moisture slick on the pad of her finger. "Tell me what you need." She strokes again, still along the outside of Hermione's cunt, just tracing the seam. Another sheen of slick leaks out. "You're the only one who can."

Hermione bites her lip.

"If you tell me, honey, then it won't be all down to you."

"Touch my pussy," Hermione whispers.

"Good girl." Her other arm still braced against Hermione, Lavender moves her hand to the bottom of the leaking slit and lets her middle finger slip inside. Just a bit. "That's a start."

"Fuck. _Lavender_." Hermione bucks her hips forward and another inch of Lavender's finger disappears inside.

"You're so hot," Lavender tells her. "So hot around my finger. You hungry for me?"

Hermione nods. "Do it to me," she says, her voice still low.

"Do what, now?" Lavender can be evil when she wants to be. Right now she wants to be.

"Finger me." Hermione's eyes are shut tight, her face taut.

"Like this?" Lavender fucks her finger deeper in, curling and stroking the tight heat of Hermione's walls. Then brings her thumb up to the folds of Hermione's clit. Rubs her once, twice, and then doesn't. Takes her hand away.

"Oh God." Hermione's eyes fly open, dark and a little wild. Like her cunt is wild. For this. "Lavender, please." Her voice has gone wobbly. 

Lavender loves this part. "What do you need?" she asks again. 

"Do it to me, Lavender, please."

"Say it first. Tell me. What you really need." 

Hermione begins to tremble. "I need--need you to--" She breaks. "Take care of me," she finishes, a huge shudder going through her. The confession shivers up Lavender's arm where she grips Hermione's shoulder, surges straight into her heart; Hermione's most secret longing, breaking free. Only for Lavender. 

Lavender rests her forehead against Hermione's. Soft hair tickles her brow. "That's right, love," she whispers. "So good for me, telling me just what you need. Now show me where, love. Show me your pussy."

"Fuck--" Hermione spreads her legs wide, throwing her head back, her hair and her earrings shaking. She leans back on the desk, bracing herself on her hands, bucking her cunt forward. Lavender drops to her knees. She's so wet herself. 

"Please, here, in my pussy, suck my clit, fuck me. I need you to, please--" 

Lavender darts out her tongue, tasting the seam of Hermione's desperation, the lobes of her cunt slick with need. She breathes in, the scent of Hermione's arousal mingling with the faint scent of her perfume, her skin. She flicks her tongue against the folded hood and fucks her fingers in. When her tongue touches the clit bud, Hermione moans and grips Lavender's hair. 

Lavender eats her. Salt-swollen, the lobes of her pussy lips ripe in Lavender's mouth. Lavender hums, tongue fluttering, and licks her deeper into shaking, pleading, until syllables drop from her mouth like prayers. 

_Please. Please_. A slow, two-fingered fuck in counterpoint to the thrum of her tongue on that clit. Lavender gets lost in it, Hermione's pleasure vibrating inside her as well. The taste of the woman she loves and the feel of Hermione's thighs against her head. Hermione's hands in her hair, Hermione's voice breaking, the _please_ shaken into pure sound.

Hermione's magic thrums against Lavender, vibrating into her skin, her blood. And then Hermione's coming, crying out as her cunt pulses around Lavender's hand. Her magic breaks out, low dark chords of power rippling through them both. 

Lavender can't take it anymore. Still pressing her mouth to Hermione's clit, she draws her wet fingers from Hermione's streaming cunt and finds her own, wet beneath her dress. A magic fingers charm sets her hand buzzing and then, Hermione still trembling above her, Lavender wanks and comes herself, moaning around Hermione's clit until Hermione, too sensitive now, nudges her away.

"Lavender. _Fuck._ Baby." Hermione sounds drunk, and maybe she is--high on a combination of pleasure endorphins and fatigue. She reaches down unsteadily and pulls, urging Lavender to her feet, kissing her juices from Lavender's face, then letting her head fall to Lavender's ample breasts. When she blinks up at Lavender, her face is so open and vulnerable that all Lavender can do is hug her, murmuring how good she is, how clever, how brave. Hermione slumps boneless against her. Lavender gazes down at her and realises she hasn't seen Hermione look so relaxed since they returned from their honeymoon, the dark circles under her eyes notwithstanding. 

"Hermione?"

"Hmm." Hermione's voice is sleepy.

"Let's cancel the dinner reservations."

Hermione raises her head. "But you've been looking forward to it all week."

It's true, and it's sweet of Hermione to say so, but what Lavender really wants now is something else. Something simpler, easier, and yet far sweeter than the evening they'd originally planned. After all, why would you spend a couple of hours sitting in a swanky restaurant across a table from your wife when you could pour her into bed and then curl up naked beside her? 

"I need something too," Lavender murmurs. 

Hermione sits up at once. "Anything, baby." 

"I need to take you home now," Lavender says, and does.

~fin~

Notes: 

_What if the rain comes pattering down_  
_My heaven is blue_  
_Can it be sending me Emily Brown_  
_Miss Brown to you_

_Why do you think she's comin' to town_  
_Just wait and you'll see_  
_The lovable little Miss Brown to you_  
_Is baby to me_

\--Billie Holiday 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Your comments and kudos and recs are extra-appreciated on a rarepair femslash fic <3


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